Parabola
by AbreakIntheClouds
Summary: This body holding me, reminds me of my own mortality.
1. Chapter 1

The flesh was blue, vile, but delicate—still. His veins were apparent; pulsing up the length of his forearms, thin and smooth. Surprising, right?

And, still, she couldn't look away, even if he was dying in front of her. Slowly, slowly. The scent of him was something sweet; not feminine or flowery, but something like a child. Soft.

His hand twitches when she goes to reach for it. His eyes flutter slowly, tiredly. She smiles almost as a way to apologize for disturbing him from what little slumber he had. He nods, and smiles too. His hand holds hers. Strands of his hair catches the light, and even in the dimness his hairs shine white. Almost a halo. Almost.

And she allows herself to faintly wonder what, who he was before they had met each other. She pictures him to be gentle, kind boy. Probably a lot more plump in his cheeks and belly. He looks and feels far too thin right now.

"We'll go soon, alright?" He says after awhile. She nods.

She was tired of sitting here. Her legs were starting to feel as though they didn't even belong to her. It was hot and uncomfortable and the atmosphere was just as hazy as their thoughts. And it bothered her, the amount of thought she put into simple things. She vaguely wondered if fellow classmates bothered with thinking in such a manner. Maybe she was putting far too much effort into life. She had to smile at that. It was all too much to consider.

She had only seen a dead body once. She was in the car with her mother when they passed a beaten homeless man. She had told him, politely throwing the topic into a conversation once. "It may sound funny, but the thing that bothers me the most is, that I _couldn't_ see his face." Is that how we all end up? She loved to think of all the people she had met—all of them, good or bad, and it brought some kind of sad comfort to consider their lives and their relationships.

She was just an 'overwhelmingly and annoyingly sentimental creature' he had established—jokingly. That label was enough for her. She was amused by his take on it all. She founds herself stroking the dryness of his knuckles, his hand holding hers. And she's happy.


	2. Chapter 2

It was growing dimmer and the air began to cool in the night. Burning pinks and oranges continued to peek from the horizon, eyes still visible from the tree tops. Light, playful goose bumps prickled on her forearms. Her arms were quite thin, he realized, endearingly defined by little muscles. Her grip around the chains loosened, her toes rested half-heartedly in the sand.

It was about to rain, and there was a sweet calm.

He was happy he bought a bag off Shinshi.

Nature seemed all the more insignificant—a gentle burden when he was high. When sober, he could appreciate the fact that destruction knew more than one form.

And he pondered still. When had _this_ let him think so inertly? When did happiness equate itself with indifference?

But, he took pride in it. Strangely. It simply was an activity.

She twirled from side to side, a turquoise going nowhere. Her feet created incoherent pathways in the sand, and he could picture a dinosaur resting beneath. Just shit piled on top of more shit. You dig?

Just removing yourself from your surroundings—how bored man becomes, a couple of million years of evolving and for what? Lets send shit into space, lets dig up the ground. Lets fuck the world and then not call the next the day.

Such a gentleman.

Pills like: tictacs and skittles or popcorn, baby's blood, fried chicken and AIDS. A lot of the same.

Like sand or beads in between your finger tips. Some comfort. And he patted his right jeans pocket, as though checking for his keys, and reassured himself that the baggie was still there.

She continues, looking pretty on the swing, dyed hair floating when she moves. Her soul gliding right along with the squeaking of the chains—rusted and tinted like recollections of abuse. The persistent crying from the rust embedded in the ears of parents.

And he sometimes---sometimes he allowed himself to consider whether his mother heard any swings. If she heard laughter or crying. If she felt his infant self leaving her body in hazy afternoon dreams.

Did she even remember giving birth at all?

Or was he best forgotten.

How long would he live like this. There was some peculiar warmth in the thought—that those fucking stars had something to do with it.

It is so sweet it seems artificial, the way the rain comes down. The smell abruptly sends him back to the foster home.

Kaori mentioned it too. She said something about a mickey-mouse book bag, and he's angry that he can't remember more of it. It's as though trees and sand were apart of story books. And finds himself lost in the sheer surroundings. It's pathetic, but in the way mass suicide. As though just having enough metal and cement will save you. You and me. All of us.

It's humorous how suffocating the city is. The more you're surrounded the more comfortable you feel—hey, at least there are people to help in case some fucker tries to stomp you out. But, if there's so many people that they all seem to introvert into lesser beings. All mingling down into some whole consciousness while continuing to kill one another. Bees buzzing meaningless noises while serving a nonexistent queen

Okay, maybe drugs actually make him think too much. Kei had been too upset to even talk to him lately. Kaneda wouldn't return his calls.

_Turning to that after all that happened?_

Kaori is so sweet though. And, maybe _he_ isn't a good person.

But, she is so gentle, and honest. And maybe, he was like that once.

The wet grass is a million times better than any orphanage mattress. Maybe he doesn't have a reason, not one good reason as to why he is so fucked up. He can think of no reason why Kaori is here with him. But, she is.

And her weight is perfect—on top of him. And he's nothing at all when she's not around. And the way she moans is like the leaves falling, the wind blowing, or the ground opening up.

They're far away from the city.

He never wants to hear gunshots again.


End file.
